Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9E125Q7G5SCEEC8TJ7ADE

Sunset smeared the suburbs in pastel orange. Molly traced the rim of her coffee cup with a gloved finger while Bill unrolled a map of the neighborhood, which looked suspiciously like a grocery flyer extended with blue tape. They stood in Molly's cluttered kitchen, surrounded by half-finished puzzles, squeaky rubber ducks, and a kitchen timer that seemed to be counting down toward chaos. "Molly: The Maple Lane party is tomorrow. Balloons, frosting, and a suspiciously organized birthday chorus." "Bill: We glide in through the clown corridor, pretend to be music teachers, and collect loot like scholarly paperbacks." "Molly: Remember the plan: distract the glitter cannons, keep the cake intact, and never, ever mishandle the surprise unicorn." "Bill: I can juggle wrapping paper and keep a lookout." "Molly: Also, bring the tiny flashlight, the one that looks like a lipstick, so we can read the gift tags." "Bill: And if the fairy godmother arrives, we smile and bow, then tiptoe past the punch bowl." "Molly: We exit with as few fingerprints as possible. We leave only footprints of frosting." "Molly: If anything goes wrong, we pretend the party already started last Tuesday and everyone is in on the joke." "Bill: Good. We'll bookmark the danger with a blinking lollipop as a warning sign." "Molly: And if someone asks what we're doing, we say we're conducting an undercover charitable event about generosity." The room warmed with their undisciplined bravado, a lighthouse of bad ideas blinking in a sea of cookie-cutter virtues. They rehearsed in whispers, trading ridiculous lines like magicians swapping cards. A stray glitter puff drifted across the table, and Molly swatted at it as if it were a tiny, mischievous moth. Outside, the party would surge with music and laughter, as it always did, a carnival of happiness that could disarm even the most stubborn burglars. The plan, such as it was, fluttered between genius and disaster, landing presently on disaster with a soft thud of plastic toys. Molly tapped the checklist again and grinned. Bill grinned back, the kind that suggested he was about to forget something important, perhaps very important, like where he put his watch or the last two philosophical questions they had argued about. The clock on the stove chimed eight. They clinked mugs, the sound muffled by the hum of the refrigerator, and toasted to improbability and luck. Maybe, just maybe, they'd discover a gift wrap station, a napkin fortress, and a chorus of squeaky doors applauding their audacity. Their plan shimmered with ridiculous courage as the night grew louder than their nerves. Tonight's risk tasted like peppermint and mischief.